Of Arrows and Arachnids
by weepingangelofnewnewyork
Summary: A collection of short Clint and Natasha one-shots. Each story is rated separately within the document. BlackHawk Clintasha ClintNat stories. Based on one-word prompts and the random fangirl thoughts in my brain.
1. fate, n

_fate, n._

 _definition: the development of events beyond a person's control, regarded as determined by a supernatural power._

 _rating: K_

* * *

Clint and Natasha were relaxing at Clint's apartment after a physically taxing mission. Physical taxation of which included Natasha holding her breath underwater for two and a half minutes and Clint shooting the deploy button on a parachute from a little over one thousand feet below. It was all in a day's work, though, as the saying went.

Clint was channel surfing while Natasha dozed next to him on the couch with her head in his lap. At least, Clint thought she was dozing until she said, "Clint, I'm seriously starving."

"Me, too," Clint agreed, stabbing the power button on the remote. "And I'm in the mood for Chinese takeout."

"Mmm." A smile crossed Natasha's face. "That sounds so good."

"I want fried rice so much right now," Clint said, then continued tantalizingly, "and tofu, and some of that vegetable chow fun…"

"And kung pao," Natasha added longingly, "and rice noodles. And fortune cookies."

"Definitely fortune cookies," Clint agreed wholeheartedly. He jogged his leg, unsettling Natasha's head. "Get up, you, I'm going to call in and order our dinner."

#

A little while later, the two assassins were settled on the couch to eat, surrounded by small mountains of takeout boxes and the aroma of Asian food. They ate in enjoyable silence until Clint pulled out the fortune cookies and tossed one to his partner. He cracked his open and read aloud, " _Many good days are ahead in your future._ Wow. That's like, not vague at all." Clint tossed the scrap of paper away. Natasha snorted lightly, reading her own fortune.

"What is it?" Clint asked curiously. "What does yours say?"

" _Soon, you will be kissed by someone you love._ " Natasha laughed and wrinkled her nose, re-reading the words. "If you ask me, that sounds desperate, like they're running out of—" She broke off suddenly as Clint leaned forward and kissed her, taking her face in his hands. She closed her eyes, and leaning into him, she wrapped arms around him, causing multiple takeout boxes and chopsticks to fall unnoticed to the floor. Finally, she drew away, resting her forehead against his.

"Clint," she said, breathing a little faster than normal, "what was that for?"

Clint pulled his forehead away from hers and grinned at her sheepishly. "I was just doing what the fortune cookie said. Who am I to stand in the way of fate?"

Natasha raised her eyebrows suspiciously. "Are you telling me that's all that was?"

Clint ran a hand through his hair, his smile growing more embarrassed by the second. "Well… I mean…" he trailed off, seemingly unsure of what to say, then shrugged apologetically.

Natasha smirked. "Well, I guess my fortune wasn't the only one destined to prove true."


	2. tomorrow, n

_tomorrow, n._

 _definition: the day following the current day._

 _rating: K_

* * *

She was good at lying. She was a spy; it was her job to lie. But the hardest thing for her to lie about was the fact that she loved him, because she wanted to tell him how she felt, but she was too afraid. _Tomorrow,_ she always promised herself. _I'll tell him then._ But she never could, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend each day that he was only a friend to her, nothing more.

It wasn't just one thing or a few things about him that she was in love with – it was everything. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the crease between his brows when he frowned. His obsession with dogs, archery and coffee. His laugh. How he loved to tickle her when they sparred because he knew he was the only knew who could get away with it. That he was always ready to listen when she needed someone to talk to.

And she wasn't blind; she was aware that he held feelings for her, too. His love for her was evident in the way his face lit up when she smiled, and how his eyes always seemed to gravitate to her whenever she was in a room. How he watched her back during missions even when the fighting was thickest. His over-protectiveness of her. His concern and gentleness when she woke up sweating in the middle of the night, tears streaming down her cheeks and her throat hoarse from crying out, because she still had bad dreams. The look in his eyes whenever he told her he loved her. She was almost ready to say it back to him.

Maybe tomorrow.


	3. flaunt, v

_flaunt, v._

 _definition: display (something) ostentatiously, especially in order to provoke envy or admiration or to show defiance._

 _rating: K_

* * *

After S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, the world was in upheaval. Sides were chosen – S.H.I.E.L.D. or HYDRA, eagle of truth or backbiting serpent. Friends became enemies as loyalties were put to the ultimate test.

Clint didn't pretend to wish he'd been a part of it. If the public, S.H.I.E.L.D., anyone was surprised that he hadn't been in the thick of it alongside Steve, Natasha and Sam during the fall of the Triskelion, they could scratch their heads and make assumptions all they wanted. He just wasn't one for drama. All the motives for his decisions could be left at that.

Of course, the same could be said for his partner, yet there she was, "mouthing off on Capitol Hill," as one prosecutor had so accurately put it. He'd seen her on the news defending S.H.I.E.L.D., and since she was primarily a spy, that had surprised him.

But was surprised him even more was the fact that she'd been wearing the arrow necklace that was a gift from him. All of her covers had been blown, the only version of herself left was the real one, and she chose to wear the symbol that everyone knew was linked to him. She seemed to flaunt it, almost; she seemed to be making a statement about herself.

He couldn't help but wonder what she meant by it.


	4. dance, v

_dance, v._

 _definition: move rhythmically to music, typically following a set sequence of steps._

 _rating: K_

* * *

 _"Glissade, assamblé, jeté, assamblé_ , и _piqué, piqué – no, Natalia, that is unacceptable! On your toes!_ Ой! Бесполезно ребенок*!" _A hand came down in a smarting slap across the side of her face, and Natalia rose up en pointe, even though she could feel her feet bleeding through her pointe shoes. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't hold her position. "No, Talia! Piqué is en pointe! On your toes,_ ленивая девчонка! _On your toes, Natalia! Natasha? Natasha!"_

Natasha whimpered, quailing away from the hand that was shaking her shoulder before she realized that it was Clint's, and not the hand of a furious Russian ballet teacher. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, and even in the dim light, she could see the concern that pervaded his features. Then a tear dripped onto her nose, and she sat up quickly, brushing it away with the long sleeve of her shirt, pulled over the heel of her hand.

"Are you okay?" Clint asked gently, pulling his legs up onto the bed and leaning against the headboard next to her. "Was it the Red Room again?"

Natasha shook her head and hugged her knees, trying to take deep, even breaths to calm her heart rate.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

This time, she nodded, then inhaled shakily and slowly blew back out. Clint drew an arm around her and pulled her close, and she settled against his side, relaxing a little.

"I was in a ballet class," she began, then proceeded to describe her nightmare to him in a low voice. Gradually, his presence began to calm her down; the scent of him and the rumbling vibrations of his chest against her back when he hummed in response to certain parts of her dream soothed her, and when she finished, he hugged her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"It seems ridiculous now," Natasha admitted, hugging his arm.

"No, it doesn't," Clint disagreed, and his breath tickled the top of her head. "There's some weird, psychological explanation for nightmares. Maybe you had that dream because you're stressed out, or you're afraid of the past or something."

"I don't know," Natasha said doubtfully, then gave a wry half-smile. "What I _do_ know, is that I officially hate dancing."

Suddenly, Clint extricated himself from her grasp and got up from the bed. "C'mere, Tasha," he ordered, holding out a hand. She viewed it skeptically.

"Why?"

"Just because. You'll see. Just come here."

Still unsure, Natasha did as she was told, climbing off the bed and taking Clint's hand.

"Now," he said, his free hand settling on the small of her back, "I'm going to prove to you that dancing is not half bad."

"You're such a sentimentalist, Barton," Natasha complained.

"Whatever," Clint scoffed, pulling her closely to him so that their hips collided.

 _But you're my sentimentalist,_ Natasha thought contentedly, and dropped her head down on his shoulder, her face turned into him, and circled her arm around his neck.

Clint hummed a soft tune, resting the side of his face against her forehead as they swayed, slow dancing the nightmares away.

* * *

 _translations:_ и – and

Ой – _an exclamation, usually of disapproval, pronounced "oi"._

Бесполезно ребенок – _useless child, or worthless child_

ленивая девчонка – _lazy girl_


	5. twilight, n

_twilight, n._

 _definition: the soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the refraction and scattering of the sun's rays from the atmosphere._

 _rating: K_

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, and a thick coat of snow blanketed the city, muffling the soft crunch of the occasional last-minute shopper's footfalls. The temperature was in the subzero range somewhere – no one cared the exact number when their appendages were freezing off – but Natasha was sitting alone outside on a fire escape with no extra protection from the harsh conditions, save a hat and coat. She alternately blew on her fingers, rubbed them together, and stuck them beneath her armpits to keep from getting frostbite. She told herself that, being Russian, she could handle the temperature, but there wasn't too much truth in that assertion, as everyone who knew this particular Russian well also knew that she hated the cold. The real reason she was stubbornly refusing to go inside was because she wanted a full view of the sunset.

Clint was deep undercover on a mission in Slovakia. He had been gone for two months and twenty-seven days, and in all that time, Natasha hadn't been in contact with him at all. Fury had forbidden it for Clint's protection, and Natasha understood; in fact, she agreed with him. She realized that the success of Clint's mission was more important than calling to catch up. What she hadn't realized was how much she was going to miss him. Natasha wasn't normally a sentimental person, but she couldn't help noting that, in all the time they'd known each other, this was the first Christmas they'd ever spent apart.

A pang of longing struck her heart, and she pulled up the collar of the coat that was Clint's and breathed in deeply what remained of his scent. The small was faint, but warm: a combination of bow oil, coffee and pine that served to bring her loneliness into sharper focus. Natasha shivered as the wind picked up, drawing the coat closer to herself as if Clint's body heat remained in the woolen fabric.

The coat had been a gift from her. Natasha remembered how he had told her that his inky navy blue hue was his second favorite, right behind purple, and how when he put it on, she couldn't help noticing how it brought out the deep blue of his eyes.

Natasha's thoughts turned to the celebration they would be having the following morning at the Triskelion. It would be small, of course, since most of the agents and employees would be visiting with their families, but Fury would be there, along with Steve, Bruce, Tony and Pepper, and even Thor had promised to drop by. There would be carols, hot chocolate, gift exchanges, and attempted kisses under the mistletoe. She still wasn't sure if she was going – she had tolerated it in the past because Clint had been there.

But her favorite part of Christmas was a tradition that she and Clint shared. The night before Christmas, she and Clint would sit on the sagging, leather couch by the window, sipping hot coffee with the lights off and stargaze. That tradition was why she had decided to sit outside on his fire escape and watch the sunset, with the hopes that somewhere, Clint was doing the same thing.

Natasha closed her eyes and ran the tip of her freezing nose along the rough hem of the coat collar. Her breath puffed out in opaque clouds as she breathed in the frigid silence, leaning her shoulder against the icy railing.

After a while, she opened her eyes again to the sight she'd been awaiting. The stars shone white like snowflakes, scattered in a magnificent map against a deep, inky twilight that reminded her of the blue of Clint's eyes.


	6. adorable, adj

_adorable, adj._

 _definition: inspiring great affection; delightful; charming._

 _rating: K_

 **A/N: This isn't my favorite story; actually, I wasn't even planning on posting it, but obviously, that didn't end up happening, because I figured that maybe some of you might like it. So please leave a review if you do because my sense of self-appreciation needs some encouragement haha. (Wow, that sounded sad.) And while we're on the subject of reviews, t** **hank you to The Gothic Geek and thewonderpen who left reviews on Dance and Twilight, respectively! You guys made my day. x)**

 **~weeping angel**

* * *

Natasha had decided long ago that she would never, ever fall in love. It just wasn't an option – she wasn't going to compromise herself like that. Besides, being in love seemed horrible. It opened up the chest and it opened up the heart and it meant that someone could get inside and to a lot of damage.

And yet, here she was. No, she hadn't fallen in love. A more accurate description would be that, as a result of not looking where she was going, she had epically face-planted into love.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself. "Stupid, stupid…" she finished the sentence in her head.

Continuing her hostile train of thought, Natasha glared at the machine which beeped softly every few seconds, reminding her that the person she was in love with was currently on life support. Then her eyes wandered to his placid face, crisscrossed with all kinds of wires, and she felt some of her frustration melt away.

Clint's chest rose and fell methodically, a result of the ventilator. He seemed to be asleep, as his even breathing disguised the fact that he had been shot in the chest.

That's what being in love felt like, Natasha mused. A bullet wound to the chest. To be in love with someone, not knowing whether that feeling was reciprocated, was one of the worst forms of torture. It was only when you knew that the love was returned, that being in love was ever enjoyable. Natasha found herself wishing she could just tell him how she felt, without having to wonder what he thought about it or worrying about their future. She tilted her head, studying Clint's comatose form. Well… she could do that, couldn't she?

"I love you." She tried it out. It made her insides warm, yet achy, because she didn't know if he would ever be able to hear her say it. "I love you, Clint." She said it again, softer this time, almost a whisper, and scooted her chair closed to the bed, gazing down into his peaceful face. "That's why you have to get better, okay? Because I love you, and I know it's stupid but I can't help it. So, just get better—"

The shrill beeping of the ventilator interrupted Natasha as Clint's back arched, an expression of pain seizing his features. Natasha started from her chair, feeling panicky and helpless as multiple doctors and nurses swarmed into the room. She ended up in a corner, trying desperately to see what was going on, but only catching glimpses of Clint's pale, ghost-like face, scrunched in pain.

At last, the machines quieted and Clint stilled, resuming his former peaceful posture. The doctors and nurses slowly trickled from the room, ignoring Natasha, who was still anxious.

"Excuse me," Natasha spoke up, stopping the last nurse from leaving the room. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"Yes, of course," the nurse assured. "He was actually trying to breathe on his own, but the ventilator was prohibiting that."

"So, you sedated him?" Natasha asked, her eyes roving to where Clint lay. It was then that she noticed that one of the tubes was gone, the one that had been sticking out of his mouth. He wasn't intubated any more.

"No," the nurse continued, smiling. "The doctor took that as a positive indication of his condition, so we removed his endotracheal tube, which facilitates the ventilator. He's breathing on his own now – we took him off life support."

Natasha's breath caught in her throat as the information sunk in. He was breathing on his own. He was going to be alright.

"So why isn't he awake?" she asked, tearing her gaze from Clint back to the nurse.

"The sedatives still need time to wear off," the nurse explained. "That will take a few hours."

#

Natasha tried to stay awake, but she was exhausted and the hours seemed to stretch on for days. So she was sleeping when Clint woke up, but a single word from him woke her instantaneously.

"Tasha."

Natasha's eyes flew open. Clint smiled at her weakly.

"Clint." Natasha stared at him, almost uncomprehendingly, until happiness and relief washed over her. "It's about time, you idiot," she told him, unable to keep the smile from her face. "It's been almost three weeks." Suddenly, all of her unspoken fears came tumbling out unchecked. "I was worried you were never going to wake up," she admitted. "I thought I was never going to be able to talk to you again. I thought—"

"You know what I think?" Clint interrupted. "I think the way you say I love you is friggin' adorable."


	7. blue, adj

_blue, adj._

 _definition: a color intermediate between green and violet, as of the sky or sea on a sunny day_

 _rating: K_

 **A/N: This story is very abstract. It's a study of Natasha's nightmares post-Avengers, after Loki forced Clint to succumb to mind control. Thank you so much to amy .d .fuller .9 who left a review on Adorable! (Sorry I had to put spaces in your username... FanFiction thought it was a link)**

* * *

She dreamed of blue. Sharp, gleaming, frozen blue. Blue that was violent, that screamed and accused and punished. It tortured her until she cracked under the pain and pressure; strangled her until she choked for breath; stabbed her until her wounds gushed and she pleaded for mercy; killed her slowly, intimately, in every way she most feared.

She dreamed of blue that was traitorous, that befriended her, creeping closer and closer until she fell in love with its hue; a whisper in her ear that transformed unexpectedly into a rage-filled scream. She was forgotten – a friend one minute, and the next, an enemy.

But she didn't dream forever.

When she awoke, she was staring into eyes almost the same shade of blue, only she wasn't afraid anymore. This blue was calm, not wild; friendly, not hostile; loving, not hateful. She could study it forever and ever, only to fall deeper in love with every new infinite. She was drowning in it, and realizing she was just now learning what it was like to breathe.


	8. red, adj

_red, adj._

 _definition: of a color at the end of the spectrum next to orange and opposite violet, as of blood, fire, or rubies._

 _rating: T_

 **A/N: This is a companion story to Blue. Not necessarily a two-shot, but could be. ;) Thank you so much amy. d. fuller. 9 (without the spaces; sorry, FanFic still thinks you're a website Dx) for reviewing Blue!**

* * *

He dreamed of red. Pulsing, gushing, torturous red.

It oozed at an agonizing rate from her motionless body, drawing her last rattling breath closer with ever drip. The slower it ebbed, the more quickly did her life.

He dreamed of red that had an iron fist, which squeezed maliciously, capturing her final precious heartbeats. It opened its gaping maw and swallowed her whole, coating her with its own sickening shade. It trickled in a waterfall from her open mouth, bloomed in a nebula above her eye, drenched her hands, pooled at her stomach, dyed her collarbone, and dripped from her ledger. It was everywhere – she was held prisoner by its monstrous hue, and he could not free her. It was a poison, seeping slowly through her veins, starving her.

At last, it claimed her; its bloody victory cry her final soft sigh.

And he dreamed of red that was a raging demon, ripping through his insides, accusing and screaming in his head that he could have saved her.

He dreamed of red like a volcano, erupting in his very soul, making raw his deepest emotions until he cried out in pain, in a language that words could not express.

But as even good things came to an end, it was irrational to imagine that bad things never did.

He awoke, and she was there leaning over him, her flaming hair cascading down the sides of her lovely face, curtained over one eye. He groaned with relief, drinking in her image with starving eyes.

And suddenly, red wasn't evil anymore. It was the lips that grazed his own; it ignited desire through his veins; it was beauty, love, passion.

And it was her hair, that when he awoke in the morning, spilled across him, her head resting peacefully on his chest.


	9. resolution, n

_resolution, n._

 _definition: a firm decision_

 _rating: K+_

 **A/N: Happy 2016, everyone! :)**

* * *

He hadn't kissed her at midnight.

It was five 'til twelve, almost exactly a week since New Year's Day. Strike Team Delta was almost finished filing mission reports for Coulson, and Natasha was still fixated on the fact that, a week ago, Clint had kissed a field agent named Daisy at the beginning of the new year.

She wished she could stop thinking about it; she had been going over that night almost nonstop since it had happened and she couldn't figure out why. Especially since she'd never kissed Clint on New Year's before as far as she could recall, so it wasn't as though he owed it to her. So what made this year any different from all the others?

 _Nothing_ , she told herself decisively. _Nothing is different, Romanoff. He's welcome to kiss whoever the hell he wants. So quit worrying about it and worry about mission reports instead._ With these instructions secure in her mind, Natasha returned to the stack of papers in front of her, but somehow, she still couldn't seem to focus.

The minutes ticked by slowly, the silence interrupted sporadically by the clean whisper of paper, scratching of pens, shuffling of file folders and the grating creak of the spring in Clint's desk chair.

Eventually, he sighed with satisfaction and sent his pen clattering onto the table. "Done," he announced, and Natasha could hear the smile in his voice without looking up. The old spring complained again as Clint rolled his chair closer to hers.

"You 'bout done? I'm beat, but if you want help finishing up, I'm prepared to offer you my services before I take off. Since, you know, I'm _done._ "

His tone had grown teasing, and a smirk grew at the corner of Natasha's mouth. "Stop gloating, Barton; it's immature. And we weren't officially racing."

"That is where you are wrong, Romanoff," Clint argued. "It became official when I said 'loser buys coffee tomorrow morning.'"

Natasha spun her chair around to face him. She was ready to roll her eyes at him and make a sarcastic remark about his competitiveness, when she noticed a clock hanging on the wall behind him and froze. It was twelve midnight, and when she met Clint's mischievous gaze, she was affected by a sudden desire to…

Impulsively, she leaned forward, taking a fistful of the front of Clint's shirt, and slanted her mouth over his. Taken by surprise, Clint didn't react immediately, but then his hand found the side of her face and he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer. It far surpassed any vague fantasies she may have had in the deep corners of her mind about what it would be like to kiss him, and Natasha fell mesmerized by the moment.

Too soon, he drew away.

"Not that that wasn't fun, and incredible," Clint began, "but I have to ask. Um, why, again?"

"Why didn't you kiss me on New Year's?" Natasha heard herself asking, and her face grew hot. "I mean, why did you kiss Daisy Johnson?"

Clint shrugged. "Why'd you kiss Cap?"

Natasha's lips parted in surprise. "Wait, why were you paying attention to who I kissed at midnight?"

Clint quirked an eyebrow at her.

Natasha smirked. "Touché. To answer your question…" She hesitated, suddenly realizing she should have asked herself why she'd wanted to make out with Clint before actually doing it. "I just – I don't know," she answered honestly. She settled back in her chair and placed her hands in her lap, studying them self-consciously. "I guess I just… felt like kissing you. And I've never wanted to kiss anyone before in my life. So I chased that feeling." Natasha shrugged apologetically, realizing how absurd it sounded out loud.

Clint slid his chair forward, bumping his knee into hers. "I'll remember that for three hundred and fifty-eight days from now."

Natasha's eyes traveled up to Clint's face, and found him grinning.

She gave him half of a smile in return. "I look forward to that."


	10. plunge, v

_plunge, v._

 _definition: an act of jumping or diving into water_

 _rating: k_

 **A/N: If you can read Russian, this story is rated T due to language. Also, if you want to leave a one-word prompt in the comments or via messages, that would be amazing! I've been having trouble finding inspiration lately and I really want to write things you guys want to read.**

* * *

"Just do it, Nat," Barton pleaded for the umpteenth time.

"I'm going to," Romanoff grumbled, also for the umpteenth time. "Just give me a sec. I need to prepare." She took a deep breath and peered over the edge. "It's a long way down."

"No, it's not," Barton scoffed.

"Then why don't you go first?" Romanoff challenged, turning to face her partner and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Because if I do, you probably won't follow me."

"I will," Romanoff protested weakly. Barton raised an eyebrow.

Romanoff sighed. "Look, I just really don't want to do this," she admitted at last.

"But you have to," Barton said, alarm creeping into his tone. "We've been through so much together, you just have to trust me when I say I _promise_ you'll be safe. And I am _not_ leaving you behind," he added as she opened her mouth to argue.

"Clint…" Romanoff sighed. "Look, please just go ahead without me, okay?"

"But you're the Black Widow!" Barton tried a different approach. "You're not afraid of anything!"

Romanoff peeked over the edge again, then shuddered and took a step away from it. "Well, turns out that's not true."

"Nat—"

"No, I decided," Romanoff interrupted stubbornly. "I'm not going to do it." She moved to edge past Barton. Before she could take another step, he gripped her arm and shoved her off the edge.

"Пошел на хуй, Barton!" she cursed, screaming as she fell. Moments later, he heard a splash.

Barton chuckled and dove off the high diving platform to join Romanoff in the pool.


	11. apart, adv

_apart, adv._

 _definition: separated by a distance from each other in time or space._

 _rating: K_

 **A/N: I was inspired by the Civil War Superbowl tv spot to write this. I'm so looking forward to May 6th! Enjoy! Also, today is my sister's birthday (her username is Klyntaliah) so please go check out her stories and leave some reviews! It will make her day :)**

* * *

 _Boom._

The first explosion drove sharp shrapnel of dread into Natasha's heart. The explosions that followed reminded her of the finale at a fireworks show, only more deadly. Much more deadly. The seeds of dread grew into worry.

Her heart pounding, Natasha climbed onto the ledge of the airport terminal's roof and watched as truck after truck exploded into fire and smoke.

 _Where is he?_

Her quick eyes searched the ground below until she finally located him, and her breath caught in her throat.

Clint lay crumpled on the ground, much too close to a burning truck. Even from a distance, Natasha could clearly see blood staining his motionless face. Wanda Maximoff was a few feet from him, but she was also unconscious. Natasha weighed the risks and decided they didn't matter, not when it came to her partner.

Natasha broke into a run along the ledge of the roof until she came to a fire escape. She swung down the unstable iron ladder quickly and easily, and was running again as soon as her feet touched the ground.

Heat seared her skin when she reached Clint. She ignored it and drew closer until she was near enough to grab hold of him. Then she crouched down next to him, pulled one of his arms around her shoulders, and half-carried, half-dragged him over to a wall of the airport terminal. Clint opened his eyes as Natasha lowered him to the ground.

"Nat?" He sounded dazed, and he watched her like he wasn't sure if she was really there. He coughed weakly, and Natasha's stomach constricted when blood came up.

"Hey," she answered softly. Clint reached for her hand and she took it. His hand was familiar – warm and strong.

"We need to get you a medic," Natasha told him, reaching up to her comm to contact Tony. Her insides quaked with unfamiliar fear, and she struggled to control her trembling hands.

"Wait—don't—" Clint's voice broke into coughs again as he fought to sit up, and succeeded in grasping her other hand.

"But you're hurt," Natasha argued, her heartbeat quickening with anxiety. Not wanting him to lay his head back on the hard asphalt, she helped him slouch against the wall in a half-sitting position. Clint's breathing grew shallow and raspy as he strained to speak.

"We can't—let them know."

Natasha scoffed, relief washing over her. She had been worried he was going to say something much worse: that it was too late for a medic.

"Clint, I don't care about that. You're more important. You know that."

"We have to keep your cover intact," Clint disagreed. "Tony can't know you're working as a double agent. We have to stick to the plan."

"Screw the plan," Natasha bit back hotly. "Barton, you're hacking up blood. Last I checked, that's not a good thing and I am _not_ —" Natasha clenched her teeth, wanting to punch something; "—going to exchange your life for spying on Tony and gathering intel, understand? It's not worth it." Her vision blurred and she stared intently at the wall, not trusting herself to look anywhere else.

"Tasha." Clint released one of her hands, and a moment later, she felt it brush lightly against her cheek. "Trust me."

Natasha met his blue-gray eyes. They were staring steadily into her own, and her chest ached suddenly.

"I've missed you," she murmured. Clint started to answer, then looked past her, growing serious.

"Sam's coming," he said tensely. "You need to leave, Natasha. He can't find out." He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, looking exhausted.

Natasha hesitated. She hated to leave him like this, but it was easier knowing that help was on its way in the form of Sam Wilson. So she stood regretfully, her hands slipping from his. She turned to leave, but Clint's voice stopped her.

"Hey, Tash?" She turned to see a teasing smirk on his face. "By the way, last week? Turns out you hit me just hard enough."

Natasha knew what he didn't say: they were still friends.

He missed her.

Natasha's face relaxed into a half-smile for a second. Then, she left.


	12. cancel, v

_cancel, v._

 _definition: to abolish or make void_

 _rating: k+_

 **A/N: Thank you to MultiFandomRandomWriter for the prompt!**

* * *

Natasha entered the exotic hotel room, which was courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D. during Strike Team Delta's undercover mission, and shut the door behind her. She paused and took deep breaths. An image replayed in her mind: Clint lying motionless, heavy booted feet kicking into his sides and his head. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase it as a knot of guilt twisted her insides. Natasha drew a slow breath to calm herself, then tossed her clutch onto the floor. It was quickly followed by a pair of Jimmy Choos and a varied assortment of weapons.

Natasha's shoulders seized up when she went to remove her necklace, but she gritted her teeth and kept working at the tiny clasp until the jewelry was lying on a table.

Wanting to relieve some of the tension in her back, Natasha headed for the master bathroom and turned the water on in the walk-in shower. Without bothering to take off her evening gown, Natasha stepped straight into the shower, leaving the large glass door open. She shut her eyes, feeling the water drum across her face and shoulders and soak into her skin. Maybe if she stood like this long enough, the water would wash away all the blood on her hands, all the red in her ledger.

But there was so much red.

She saw Clint again, covered in his own blood, and it was her fault. Suddenly, her knees felt weak and she sunk to the shower floor, breathing heavily, and leaned her back against the wall.

Natasha wasn't entirely sure how long she sat just like that, thinking, but after a while she heard the door to the hotel room open and knew Clint had been released from the med center. He would see her guns and shoes on the floor and know she was there.

"Natasha?"

Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't face him. She had failed her duty as a partner – which was to protect him just like he protected her. She had failed.

Natasha didn't respond to Clint, but she knew it wouldn't take long for him to find her, so she clasped her hands in her lap and studied them anxiously, waiting.

"Hey, you." His voice mingled with the rushing water.

Natasha didn't look up and continued to fiddle with her fingers. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so frustrated with herself.

Clint stepped into the shower and took a seat beside her. Natasha glanced at him. He was still wearing his dress pants, but a purple t-shirt replaced his dinner jacket. Any other time she might have said something sarcastic. But not this time.

"Soaking wet is probably not the best condition for that dress," Clint commented. "I mean, just a thought."

Natasha shrugged lightly and picked at the fabric of her skirt.

"Hey," Clint said gently. "Look at me. Are you ok?"

"Fine," Natasha mumbled without looking up. She wasn't quite ready to make eye contact with Clint. Surely he would blame her for what had happened to him.

Clint sighed. "I think I know what this is about, and it's not your fault."

Natasha laughed bitterly. "Not my fault. Of course you would think that. You think no one ever does anything wrong."

"I don't _think_ it's not your fault; I _know_ it's not your fault," Clint said a little sharply. Natasha frowned into her lap. She knew he was only trying to alleviate her guilt, but it wouldn't work because what had happened to Clint was unmistakably a direct cause of her own stupidity.

"I lost my sense of direction in a château that I had memorized the blueprints of while you were getting kicked to bits on a different floor," Natasha recited monotonously.

"Sometimes these things happen. Everyone makes mistakes—" Clint began, but Natasha cut him off.

"'Everyone makes mistakes' is just a polite way of saying that I screwed up."

"That's not true," Clint disagreed. "It could have happened to anyone, Natasha, don't beat yourself up about it."

"But I'm not 'anyone'," Natasha muttered, bunching the cloth of her skirt into a ball in her fists. "I'm a professionally trained assassin and it's my job to not screw up. But I did, so it's my fault."

"Back up," said Clint. "Were you the one beating me up?" Natasha glared at her lap, blinking when water dripped into her eye. Clint took her silence as a disaffirmation. "If you weren't physically injuring me, I fail to see how my injuries are your fault."

"Don't be stupid," Natasha grumbled. "I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not being stupid, I'm being logical and honest," Clint argued. "Strike Team Delta has gone way better than anyone expected so far. It's irrational to think that there would never be any slip-ups. And it's not like you completely deserted me. You came eventually. It's not like I died."

Natasha's gut knotted. "You could have."

Clint didn't respond.

Natasha squeezed her hands into fists. "See? That's why it's my fault. A partnership means mutual trust, mutual assistance and defense. I'm to blame for what happened to you, just like I would be to blame if…" she trailed off, but knew Clint understood.

"It _was_ a mistake," Natasha conceded, "but a mistake that was my fault. I'm going to make sure I never slip up again, not until I've repaid you."

"Repaid—" Clint turned sharply. "Natasha, what do you mean, repaid?"

The dangerous quality of his tone caused Natasha to look up at him for the first time. His brows were knitted tightly, and he looked like he might explode, regardless of her answer. His hair was flattened on top, and by this time, his t-shirt was drenched completely.

Natasha stared at him wide-eyed, trying to figure out what he was so upset about. "I mean that you saved my life, so I owe you—"

"No," Clint interrupted, his face contorted into an expression that she couldn't read. "Stop. You don't owe me anything, understand? I don't want you to repay me or ever believe that you have to."

Natasha frowned quizzically. "Repaying you is my job."

Clint's jaw tightened. "No, it's not. We're looking out for each other. We're equal partners."

Natasha searched his stormy eyes. He believed what he was saying. "We're not equals," she disagreed. "Not yet. I have a debt to pay. I have a ledger, and there's still red in it."

Clint laughed, a disbelieving sound. "Natasha, you need to stop looking at the world like it's a business transaction. I don't expect any type of reimbursement for saving you, I never have. I saved your life because your life is worth saving."

A shiver travelled the length of Natasha's spine. She had never heard anyone talk that way before. Until now, everyone had expected some form of payment for their good deeds, usually in to form of her skills or her body.

"But I-I'm indebted to you," she stammered, still trying to understand. "You saved my life. That's a huge debt."

"That I'm cancelling," Clint said simply.

"I'm an asset."

"You're more than that," Clint told her. "You're not only an asset, and you're not here just because I'm waiting for a good time to cash in a favor. You're more than all that. You're more than just the Black Widow."

Their gazes held for a few ponderous moments as Natasha struggled to process her partner's words.

Then Clint stood, and a small waterfall spilled out of his clothing. "Come on, let's get changed and get some sleep." He turned off the shower and stepped out.

"Wait." Natasha rose quickly and stepped down next to him. And they stood, motionless; rivers tumbling from their clothing, trailing off their skin; drowning in a shared moment.

"If…" Natasha hesitated, trying to form coherent thoughts. "If I'm not any of that, then what _am_ I?"

Clint smiled halfway. "You're Natasha Romanoff, and you're my friend."


	13. far, adj

_far, adj._

 _definition: situated at a great distance in space or time_

 _rating: T_

 **A/N: Oh My Gosh Did You Guys See The Trailer Teaser. Natasha and Clint my children were so freakin hot like I was taking a drink when I saw it and I 100% literally genuinely almost spit out my water when Natasha came smirking onscreen. The trailer is out tomorrow and I'm simultaneously so ready and so not ready. WE'RE GETTING THE CLINTASHA FIGHT SCENE and I think there will be tears coming out of my face. Enjoy the fic and fav/review if you liked! *thumbs up* T rating is for language.**

* * *

 _"You've reached Natasha Romanoff, leave a message."_

Hey, Nat, how's Malibu? Puente Antiguo sucks. It's so hot here, like you can't even imagine. Well, I guess you kind of can, since you're in California. But chilling in Tony Stark's ridiculous mansion, I mean, you don't know how good you've got it. The 084 is stuck in a sort of crater-looking thing, just out in the middle of Nowhereville, New Mexico, and get this: The rumors are true. It's genuinely impossible to lift. We had to build a specialized lab around it so the scientists could study it without getting heatstroke. It's crazy.

Anyway, sorry I missed you. You're probably at some fancy rich party, drinking champagne. Uggh, what I wouldn't give for a chilled drink. Actually, forget that; all I really want right now is friggin' air conditioning. And to see you, of course.

Catch you later, partner.

 _###_

 _"Clint Barton. Leave your name and number and I'll call back as soon as I can."_

Barton, it's Romanoff. Sorry I missed your call. I have a different phone number as Natalie Rushman, so I didn't get your message until I got back to my hotel. It was actually good to hear something other than a billionaire egomaniac talk about himself all day. Cause you make Malibu out to be some type of relaxation vacation, but Tony Stark is hard to babysit and a royal pain in the ass most of the time. I have to follow him around to all his press conferences and everything. Tomorrow, we have some charity event to go to at a racetrack that's a big deal, and I have to make sure he doesn't talk to the wrong people and gets his food served right. Honestly, I'd rather be in Puente Antiguo. Nowhereville sounds nice. I'm going to bed, goodnight, Barton.

###

 _"You've reached Natasha Romanoff, leave a message."_

Damn it, Nat, I lost the number you texted me to call you with and I'm not sure how. It's the heat, I'm blaming the heat. Probably fried my phone circuits or something.

Anyways, I'm so done with New Mexico. It's hot and sticky and there's all these gross bugs and snakes. Oh, and the motel I'm staying at sucks big-time. The air conditioning has been out for three days, and I think there are bed bugs in the sheets. It's nasty. And the heat is messing with everybody's heads, Coulson feels all super spy in the desert and he never takes his suit jacket off and uses acronyms all the time. It's weird.

I hope you ate some cake for me at that charity event last night. Next time you call, you can tell me how it went, just make sure you don't call me in the middle of the night like last time or I'll be asleep. Why were you up that late anyways? Malibu is only an hour ahead of Puente Antiguo, so you were up at one a.m. Seriously, don't overwork yourself, Tasha. Take care.

###

 _"You've reached Natasha Romanoff, leave a message."_

Dang, we are playing some Olympic-level phone tag. I saw you tried to call again. And I also saw what happened at your charity event on the news this morning, everyone's talking about that Whiplash shmuck, are you okay? I didn't see you on the news which is good, I guess. Send me a text or something after you listen to this though, so I know you're ok. Talk to you soon.

Oh—one more thing: We acquired a ton of intel on the 084, which is good—well, the scientist Coulson confiscated it from wasn't very happy, but it's good for us. Maybe we can finally figure out how to move this thing and kiss Nowhereville goodbye. Text me.

 _###_

 _"Clint Barton. Leave your name and number and I'll call back as soon as I can."_

You're wrong, Barton, as per usual. I _was_ in the news. Jarvis – um, that's Stark's AI – Jarvis found a news article of what Pepper Potts and I wore to the event. The journalist said I wore Liz Claiborne "well", so, um, yeah. There's that.

Did I tell you about my first day undercover? I took out Stark's bodyguard to prove a point. Well actually, I didn't take him out, exactly, but he was tapping out of a thigh choke when I was done with him. I was just thinking about it recently, and I thought you'd find it funny. I don't know why I told you over voicemail, I was just rambling I guess. Sorry.

Pepper needs me; gotta run, bye.

###

 _"You've reached Natasha Romanoff, leave a message."_

Natashaaaa Romanoffff… I'm starting to think you're intentionally avoiding me, this is ridiculous. [chuckle] I've got a lot to tell you, though, so I might as well do it now. Oh, I found the dress article you were talking about. I don't know any designers but the dress you were wearing looked great. You know, can you imagine what people would think if you wore a miniskirt to a nice place like that? Like something you would wear clubbing. [chuckle] Actually, you know what, I dare you, Natasha Romanoff, to wear a minidress to the next fancy shindig you go to. Ooh, and it has to be animal print. Do it. I double-dog dare you. The critics'll go wild.

But guess what? Something finally happened in Nowhereville. Crazy, right? Some ripped surfer dude-lookin' guy broke into the facility and tried to take the 084. Coulson got really peeved because this dude took out all his agents. He said they looked like underqualified mall cops, and actually, they did. I saw it go down, it was pretty… wow. It was like watching a superhero movie or something. We got him in custody, though. It was weird—the guy looked like he honestly expected that thing to budge. Of course it didn't, but still. Can't blame someone for trying.

Okay, I gotta go help clean up the mess this guy made. Talk to you soon.

Oh—one more thing: It rained tonight and I feel like a new man. Goodnight, Tasha.

###

 _"Clint Barton. Leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can."_

[pause] …Clint? I need to talk to you… I texted you my Natalie Rushman number again. Don't lose it, and, um, call me. Soon. Um, okay bye.

###

[loud background noise] "Hello, Natalie speaking."

"Nat, hi, I got your message and listened to it like five times before I called. Is everything good? Are you okay? You called me Clint and you never do that. Say yes if you're being held hostage."

"Calm down, Barton, I'm fine. I'm at Stark's birthday party now, so… I hate to say this, but it's not a good time." [breaking glass] [loud laughter] [beat dropping]

"Oh. Good. Well actually, stuff happened, and the mission's over, I'll tell you about it later. I'm going home really soon, so I'll have some time on the way back to talk, is that okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine. But your phone gets terrible service on flights."

"Ehh, it'll be okay."

"So… I have to go. This party is getting out of hand."

"Okay. Hey—are you wearing the dress?"

"I can hear you smiling, Barton, and I would only wear that dress in your wildest dreams."

"Oh, so you're rocking an animal printed miniskirt in my wildest dreams, now?"

"Bye, Barton."

[end call]

###

 _"Clint Barton. Leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can."_

Looks like we're back to playing phone tag. [nervous laugh] Barton, I told you this wouldn't work while you're on a plane. I told you, but you never listen, do you? [nervous laugh] [sigh]

Actually, it would be better if you listened to what I want to say over voicemail. Easier for me, anyway.

Stark… um, Stark asked me on the night of his party if—if I knew I only had one birthday left, and I could spend it however I wanted, what I would do. And I told him I would do whatever I wanted, which whoever I wanted to do it with. But the question just stuck with me, and… well, I realized I didn't care what I did as long as I did it with you. Clint… I really mean that. Really really. You probably think I'm making it up, but I'm not. I've had this feeling for a long, long time, it just took me a while to realize it.

[sigh] Um… okay… I said it. Just think about it, I guess… I'll see you tomorrow, I'm done in Malibu. 'Night.

###

"Natalie speaking."

"Hey, Nat."

"Clint."

"Yeah. I got your message, and I have a two-word response: Hell. Yes."

"Wh-what?"

"Natasha Romanoff, I have been flirting with you for at least two years now, but I thought you'd never feel the same way about me that I felt about you."

"That was flirting?"

"Wow. Yeah. So my flirting skills could use some improvement."

"I think I can help with that."

"… Nat, you are so hot."

[chuckle] "Well, I want to stay and talk, but I can't. My phone battery is almost dead and I'm not going to use Natalie's phone anymore. And I need sleep."

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah… goodnight, Clint."

"Wait, one more thing. You totally wore that minidress to Stark's party, didn't you? Don't lie to me, Nat, don't even try because you know you can't get away with it."

"Clint, you suck. Screw you. I wore it."

"I knew it!"

[end call]


	14. smitten, v

_smitten, v._

 _definition: be strongly attracted to someone_

 _rating: T_

 **A/N: The inspiration for this came when I started wondering if Clint and Natasha had met on a mission before the time he saved her life. ALSO the international trailer with the Clint/Nat fight scene came out and I have watched it too many times oops ;D Enjoy and look out for a reference to the first time Jeremy and Scarlett met in real lfe! Xx**

* * *

"Identification, please."

Clint flashes his ID at the security guard, excitement thrumming in his veins, and is waved through. It's his first high profile mission, the location an exclusive club for young people between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five. He's a fairly new recruit and he's only been chosen for the job because of his young age. But he's trained hard for this and is the most skilled of the recruits, and he intends to impress his superiors above and beyond their expectations of him, and maybe even level up early in the process. He knows these are lofty goals that are dependent on the mission at hand going well, and his sweaty palm slips on the door handle a little when he grasps it.

His target?

The Black Widow.

He's read her file so many times he could recite it backwards as well as forwards. It's impressive. She's killed important people even in high security situations. She's gotten out of seemingly inescapable traps. She's accessed supposedly impenetrable locations. She's known as the Black Widow, the Slavic Shadow, the Red Death. Her primary weapon is listed as "thighs".

But Clint is at least seventy percent sure he can complete his mission. He doesn't have to kill her, that's too much expectation for a single young agent. He only has to drug her to keep her from poisoning the Prince of Belgium, who's rather infamously known for being a party animal. The prince's security detail is light tonight because of the club's age restrictions.

Clint's only concern is that he won't recognize his target. The only confirmed photograph of her is blurry and at a bad angle, taken just as she's disappearing around a corner, her red hair flying. The picture had been taken quite a few years ago, which meant that she was only about twelve or thirteen at the time.

Okay, so maybe sixty percent sure is more realistic. Fifty-five.

Clint swallows and taps his comm on.

"Testing."

"Loud and clear, Agent Barton," his handler, Agent Phil Coulson replies.

The room is packed, filled with intoxicated, extravagantly dressed young men and women. Clint pushes his way slowly through the crowd of bodies rocking to the music of some famous singer crooning into a microphone.

Within a few moments, he has located the Belgian prince, drinking at the bar surrounded by at least three scantily-dressed, flirtatious girls.

Clint mentally groans. He had been partly counting on the Black Widow hanging close to the prince to identify her, but he now realizes that there are so many people in the room that she could easily slip by and poison the prince's drink without anyone noticing.

"Hello, handsome."

Clint turns sharply and jumps when he finds two sparkling green eyes only a few inches from his own. He swallows hard, his eyes taking her in from her perfect blonde curls to her pouty pink lips, down her scandalously short, dazzling dress, following the line of her smooth legs to her small feet, clad in a pair of dirty old sneakers.

Somehow, she pulls it off.

"H-hey," Clint stammers, his voice cracking. _Pull yourself together_ , he admonishes himself sharply. He hadn't thought about the fact that he was an eligible man at a classy club. But this girl is way out of his league, even in his wildest dreams.

"Barton, are you focused?" Coulson asks. Crap. He must have heard the voice crack.

"Wanna get a drink?" The girl asks in a voice that is attractively hoarse, blinking her enticing emerald eyes.

Clint feels confused and light-headed, like he's already intoxicated just from drinking in the sight of her.

"Yes," he answers Coulson out loud. The girl grabs his arm and pulls him towards the counter. Great. She thought he was talking to her. Maybe he had been.

"No drinking on the job, Barton," Coulson warns. And his first mission is off to a great start.

"What do you want?" She asks. They're at the bar, and he's standing beside one of the girls next to the Belgian prince.

"Um, I'm not drinking tonight," Clint tells her a little shamefacedly. She raises an eyebrow and orders two gin and juices, raising her voice over the sounds of laughter and too-loud music.

"Everybody's drinking tonight," she says, smirking roguishly as she hands him his glass. Clint accidentally takes it. She smiles again and he watches in amazement and admiration as she downs her drink. He studies her face when she sets down her glass, noticing that she's quite a bit younger than he is.

"How did you get in?" He finds himself asking, leaning close to her so she can hear him over all the noise. "I'm twenty-two and I can tell you're younger than I am. Too young to be in here." She leans forward too, and takes his glass. A soft hint of perfume teases his nose and he subconsciously inhales more deeply.

"I know people in high places," she says vaguely, and tips her head up to take another drink, exposing her smooth throat. She places the glass on the counter and pauses, studying him. He holds his breath, his ears pounding with the music and the wild beating of his heart.

"Dance with me," she says next, and before Clint knows what's happening, she's pulling him out on the floor, next to the wall where no one else is dancing, and her arms are twined around his neck and his hands are on her small waistline. She pushes up against him, and her hip fits perfectly below his like it was made to. Clint closes his eyes for a second, enjoying the sensation of her hand in his hair at the back of his neck and her body pressed to his, and pulls her closer, his hands moving to the small of her back.

"Barton, what's happening? Fill me in, did you find the prince yet? Is the Black Widow here?" Coulson's voice cuts into his thoughts at an opportune moment.

Clint's eyes fly open instantly. Oh, how stupid of him. She smirks. It's _her_. He's dancing with, he's basically hugging the Black Widow. The drug feels heavy in his pocket.

"Let's get another drink," he suggests, his heart pounding now for a different reason. She probably has at least ten different weapons on her, not including her killer thighs. The quicker he can drug her, the better for everyone, especially the Belgian prince. Her eyelids lower for a second, and she tilts her head at him, her eyes catching and somehow holding the changing light.

"What's this?" Her fingers dart forward and his ear tickles for an instant when she pulls out his comm.

"Hey! I need that!" Clint says, panicking. His hand is still on her waist but she leans away, holding it out of his reach.

"Why?" She asks teasingly. Clint feels fear rising in his throat. She knows exactly what it's for, and there's no way she's going to give it back. So he improvises.

"It's my hearing aid," he says, and mentally congratulates himself on his method acting. "I can't hear a damn without it."

"Then read my lips," she sighs, and her mouth crashes into his. He starts to pull away, but she grabs his lapels and spins him around, slamming him into the wall. Her fingers spread over his chest and her teeth bite down on his lower lip. Clint doesn't mean to kiss her, but somehow, it happens anyway. His stomach twists and he's dizzy, and one hand is beneath her soft curls and the other tightening on her hip, and the scent of her perfume is crowding out any other thought, and her lips are warm and sweet. And the floor is tilting, and he's falling, he's taking a nap on the floor. Somehow, he manages to peel his eyelids open long enough to see her walking towards the bar, towards the prince. She twists around and smirks, blowing a kiss in his direction. Clint groans and his eyes slide shut. It was the lipstick. Why is it always drugged lipstick? _Damn femme fatale_ , is his last thought before he slides into peaceful oblivion.

* * *

 **A/N: The reference, if you caught it, was Natasha's shoes. Jeremy Renner said during Scarlett's Hollywood Walk of Fame that the first time he met Scarlett was at a party and she looked amazing in this gorgeous dress and she was wearing a pair of dirty old shoes. :D**


	15. melt, v

_melt, v._

 _definition: change or merge imperceptibly into another form or state._

 _rating: T_

 **A/N: I SAW CIVIL WAR YESTERDAY. I'm not gonna give any spoilers, but it was friggin incredible. Clint had more character development in that movie than he's had in the rest of the MCU put together, somehow. AND NAT HAD SO MANY FIGHT SCENES. It made my heart proud :,) anyways, if you enjoy dying and being dead, then this fic is for you ;) enjoy! Xx**

* * *

She had hated him once. It seems so stupid now, but at that time, she didn't know any better. She had hated how he trusted her, saw her as an equal, shortened her first name. She would give anything, anything at all, to hear that now. But Karma has a funny way of coming back to bite you in the ass like that. Regardless of how she feels about him now, she had hated him, once.

"You can trust me, Nat," he told her often. "You know that, right? I'm never going to hurt you."

Her response was always predictable.

"Don't call me that, Barton. It's not my name. Oh, and pardon me if I trust myself a hell of a lot more than I trust you. You were assigned to kill me, if I remember correctly."

"But I didn't kill you. And you're not my mission anymore; you're my partner and my friend," he would tell her. And then he would call her Nat again just to piss her off.

Then came Hong Kong. They had tracked a terrorist through a mountain and cornered him. He'd decided it would be better to die than be taken in to S.H.I.E.L.D. for questioning, and threw himself from the mountain, grabbing her ankle on the way down. Dropping through the air with her stomach coming up her throat, she had managed to grab onto a rock ledge, and dangled hundreds of feet above the ground before she allowed her partner to pull her to safety.

"Trust me," he demanded, his arms stretched toward her. Finally, her hate melted away for good, replaced by trust, and she grabbed his wrists and held on for dear life. And never let go.

Along with trust came something she hadn't bargained on: friendship. They became best friends, with stories and inside jokes and secret languages and late-night conversations, everything she'd never had.

"Joined at the hip," everyone said, and he would waggle his eyebrows at her and make innuendos until her face grew red as her hair and she threatened to sew his lips shut.

She misses that now; she's ashamed of the lengths she would go to hear just one joke, even if it's only a badly placed "that's what she said." She would go to the moon if it made him smile.

But they had been "just friends", nothing more, for far too long. Then one wild, drunken night, he had kissed someone else. And something snapped inside her. If he was going to kiss anyone, it should be her. Friendship melted into passionate love in that instant, and she'd grabbed him and kissed him like she was breathing and if she stopped, she would keel over and die.

After that, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves. There were "private meetings" in empty conferences, tiny offices, bathrooms… the list went on. Everyone thought it was temporary, a fling, but they were wrong. The love she shared with her best friend was wild and young, but somehow, she knew it was real. He made her realize that life wasn't about survival, it was the survival of someone else. Sometimes it scared her, what she would do to keep him safe.

And it was though a fire had been lit inside each of them, one that could never die. It still burns bright in her, even though she does everything she can to put it out.

Gradually, the passion melted into calm. She felt a sense of security around him; he was her safe place. The hot summer of their love faded like leaves into a peaceful autumn. They became content to just be in one another's company. Content to fall asleep with only their hands entwined, each comforted by the sound of the other breathing. Back then, she thought that just the fact that he existed was more than enough. But now she knows better. Because the two of them were living a perfect fairytale, and even though they always live happily ever after, fairy stories have to end sometime.

###

She pauses outside the door, gripping the glossy photographs in her hand so tightly that they wrinkle. She takes a slow breath, telling herself to stay strong.

But memories haunt her mind. Guatemala. A sudden explosion. Bleeding, screaming, dying.

Her hand trembles and she curls it into a tight fist.

 _I can go through this again, just like I did yesterday and the day before that and all two hundred and seventy three days before that,_ she lies to herself. And she opens the door.

He's sitting in the same chair by the same bed in the same room of the rehabilitation center as always, the same vacant look erasing any trace of emotion from his face.

"Hey, you," she greets him softly, crossing the room. His eyes meet hers but there is nothing in them. No sign of recognition or even confusion. She swallows and holds out a photograph for him to see.

"Look, Clint. It's us. Remember this day?"

His eyes drift down to stare at it, a memory, frozen in an instant for eternity. A memory of them on a vacation in New Zealand, just for fun, the only one they ever had. A memory by a rocky beach, of him kissing her cheek, of her tossing back her windswept red hair and laughing.

He looks at it for a minute before his eyes unfocus and he's back to staring through walls.

Her heart sinks. It's only her memory now. Not his. Not theirs. She tosses the photograph, along with the rest, into a trashcan and collapses onto the bed, feeling useless.

She considers crying and begging, or possibly yelling at him to wake up and remember, but she's already been through it all, tried everything.

She's endured the paradisiac calm melting to fear and panic, the running on a couple hours of sleep every few nights, waiting and waiting and waiting for him to wake up, sitting by his hospital bed every second of every day for a month and a half to hold his hand and tell him stories and whisper her heart in his ear, hoping and crying and praying for a miracle.

She's endured the fear melting into anger when he wakes up and doesn't remember her, doesn't remember the inside jokes or the secret languages or the late-night conversations or her nickname, doesn't even remember that he loved her, that they'd been the truest of love stories.

She's endured the anger melting into painful loneliness, late nights when she's had enough, she's broken down and begged him to stop this game, it isn't funny anymore, please come back because I miss you so much it hurts, then laying on the bed next to him and pulling his arm around her and putting hers around his neck, burying her face in his familiar shoulder to pretend everything is perfect for a while, that they're safe and happy and best friends who are in love.

She's endured the pain melting into nostalgia when they move him to a rehab center and she decorates his room like their apartment, filling it with things that might help him remember, like pictures of his dog, a funny card he made her once when she was sick, his favorite bow and a quiver of trick arrows; she's endured visiting him every day, all but living in that tiny room, to sit on the bed or on the chair or lay on the floor and tell him about what they will do together when he gets better, how they will get a new apartment, and work with S.H.I.E.L.D. again as an inseparable, unbeatable team and travel the world; and she's endured telling him about their adventures together, everything they've been through, the bad times and the good times, and she's laughed until the tears of mirth morphed into tears of longing, while Clint sat in his chair and stared out the window, right next to her but so far away.

She's endured just about all she can take.

"You can trust me, Nat," he had told her. "You know that, right? I'm never going to hurt you."

She, of all people, should have seen right through that lie. And she comes to a decision, finally.

She stirs and pushes into a sitting position, her legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

"Clint?" she takes his hand in hers, and it's still wiry and muscular, still fits perfectly with hers. "Clint, I have something to tell you." She takes the side of his face and turns his head towards her, and his eyes find hers. She swallows hard, every inch of her missing him. "I'm leaving," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I can't do this forever. There's a new S.H.I.E.L.D. base in Russia that's in need of agents with experience, so I'm moving back there. It'll be good for me, I think." She pauses to steady her voice, and Clint's brow shifts into a nearly imperceptible frown.

"You'll be perfectly fine without me, and I'll be alright too, if I give it enough time." She pauses again, words on the tip of her tongue, wanting to tell him that she loves him, that she gave him a piece of her heart she knows she'll never get back, that she has a piece of his that she'll never be able to let go of, that though she knows he'll never be the same again, she'll never give up hoping. And she longs to thank him for everything they had and for nothing at all, because even though he made her happier than anyone else could, he'd ended up hurting her more than anyone else could. Despite all of her training, she will never be able to perfect the skill of truly moving on. But maybe someday, her regret at leaving him will melt into something she can live with.

But she's on the verge of crying again, her hands are shaking, there's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow down, and she wants to get this over with. So instead, she gives his hand a quick squeeze.

"Goodbye, Clint," she whispers, and after a second of hesitation, she leans forward and brushes her lips past his one last time. Then she stands to leave, and before she has time to think about it and change her mind, she snatches the picture of New Zealand from the trash and stuffs it deep in her pockets before she leaves.

He was her everything. And when she lost him, she lost everything. And she hated him once, when they first met. Maybe it would have been wise of her to keep it that way, to never fall in love with him. But if she had to live it all over again, she wouldn't change a thing.


	16. longing, n

_longing, n._

 _definition: a yearning desire._

 _rating: T_

 **A/N: First of all, I've been really excited for you all to read this story because I really like it. It's based on one of my favorite songs, Fools by Troye Sivan. If you haven't heard it, you should listen to it after you read this x) The T rating is for language. I used some words in this fic that may offend some of you, but I did not put those words in because I think they sound cool or because I think they'll give my story more views. I put them in to make a point and because I think that the character would use them in this situation.**

 **In other news: the first chapter of the longest fic I have ever written is up and I'm so excited! It's called Distracted in Siberia and it's a Clintasha fic so you should check it out ;) Enjoy the story! :)**

* * *

Dear Natasha,

I'm sorry.

#####

He sat down, ordered a Tanqueray. Because that's what people do to forget things: drown their memories in alcohol. The bartender asked if he was enjoying London. Clint grabbed his drink and found a booth by the wall. He hated London.

#####

"I love you." There. He'd finally said it after all these years. His wild heard pounded against his ribcage as he waited for her answer. But she stared, her eyes wide, pink lips parted.

"Natasha?" He dared to touch her face, to brush a curl off her cheek.

She flinched from his touch, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. "What?"

"I—I love you, Tasha." He felt like a fool. "Do—do you—"

"No."

#####

He smoothed the piece of paper, reading and re-reading the words. _Dear Natasha, I'm sorry._ He ordered another drink and signed his name. _Clint_. He should never have fallen in love. He had tried not to for a while, but she was irresistible.

Images poured through his head, taunting him, and he downed another drink.

He saw the two of them undercover in London, posing as two newlyweds who could not get enough of each other. Stolen kisses between kill shots, kisses that meant more to him than to her. Early mornings in hotel rooms, drinking coffee before missions. A green headscarf that made her eyes sparkle like emeralds. Sightseeing, but watching something far more fascinating than buildings lost to time. Mission plans whispered sweetly like a promise. Red lips and wedding rings and gun smoke and arrows. Pretending that she was his, and he was hers, that their fingers locked together meant something more. Looks and words and touches that made him dare to hope, that made him see living rooms and bedsheets and a house on a hill and blue-eyed children with bright red hair.

He finished his fourth drink. Maybe if she only knew how much he loved her, she would change her mind. He picked up his pen again.

#####

I love you so damn much. I tried to stop, but I can't. I want you. I want you so damn much. I want everything, Tasha, I want to marry you and I want a house and quiet nights and babies that grow up and I want to grow old with you but never fall out of love. You don't have to be afraid because I'm not going to change my mind. You'll never know what I'm feeling and I'm getting drunk and I can't explain it. I love you so goddamn much it hurts.

#####

He tried to read the words over, but they blurred on the page. He set down his pen and rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about her but failing. For one blissful second, he remembered kissing her, how her soft, fragrant hair tickled his collarbone. It was one kiss that was real, no pretending or dreaming. One moment that he would have gladly lived in forever, if he could.

And then she said one word, and everything shattered.

#####

Opposites attract. Youre beautiful and ambitious and smart and I'm just a guy whos in love with you. I know we're different and we want different things but I dont fucking care. Im not giving up. I never will.I m so fuc king drunk and youre intoxicating.

#####

Clint could hardly think straight. He'd filled two pages and he could barely read his own writing. But she had to know how he felt. She had to know that he wasn't just messing around.

But he'd kissed her and said the three words and she'd turned him down. She'd said he was her friend, nothing more. And he'd always known they were best friends, but he wanted more.

Suddenly, the Tanqueray was climbing up his throat. He stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet.

He'd ruined everything.

He made his way back to his table, hopeless and dejected and feeling like the world was ending.

#####

Natasha I fucked up

Im so sorry Na tasha

only fools fall for you tasha, ive seen them. They are drunk and stupid and they fall at your feet because youre perfect. Im a damn fool. I dont want to lose you and everything is shattering and its my fault

i fucked up Natasha, Im so sorry. i m a fucking fool and im so dru nk and I know you don't care about me any more than you care about the rest of those sorry idiots because Im one, I'm an idiot and im sorry I fukced up by loving you so goddamn much, only fools do what I do and Im a damn fool and I love you so damn much Natasha, Im so sorry I fucked up Im so sorry I love you but i cant stop

#####

He woke up in a hotel bed. He'd had more than one too many, and the effects splintered his skull.

His note was on a table next to his bed, a mess of crumpled paper, blotched ink, atrocious handwriting, swearing and apologies; the product of unrequited love and European liquor.

A crisp white square stood next to it, a letter with his name centered on the front.

#####

Clint,

If you're a fool then I am too. I care about you more than I should, more than is good for me. And I'm tired of pretending I don't love you. But my hopes are too high, I need to change. I need time to stop loving you. Don't look for me, I left early and I don't want you to find me. You're too good for me, I'll never deserve you and honestly, maybe I'm afraid of how much I would do for you. When things change and I don't love you so much anymore, I'll come back.

Goodbye, Clint. I'm sorry. I really am.

Natasha


	17. full, adj

_full, adj._

 _definition: to be physically or emotionally satisfied_

 _rating: k_

 **A/N: Hello, yes, it is me. I am still alive after all these long months. (it's been so long since I last posted I'm almost embarrassed to come back... oops. But I came back anyways lol because cLINTASHA) And I have news about Distracted in Siberia: I'm still working on it! Yay! xD the laptop I've been writing on broke ages ago and my parents are trying to get it fixed but until then, I can't access my fic D: I'm working on it in a notebook, though, but I'm working on writing down chapter 17 or 18, I can't remember which one. and I've only posted the first three chapters on here so far. if that makes sense lol. so anyways, that's what's been going on with my life! I'm glad to be back and posting though :) And I'm planning another one-shot, so hopefully it won't be too long before I post again.**

 **Enjoy the fic, and thank you for being patient with me!**

 **~weeping angel**

* * *

When he first met her, she was strong, but too thin, and she only ever finished half of the food she was offered. He didn't think much of it until they trained. Although she used her small size to her advantage, and was able to get the better of her opponents, he couldn't help but notice that she was left much too out-of-breath by the end.

And then one night, he watched her closely after a meal and saw her staring—longingly?—at the customary half-portion that remained untouched on her plate.

"Aren't you going to eat that?" he asked, and she stared at him with her large green eyes as though he had just suggested something completely unheard-of. He shrugged.

"It'll just get thrown out if you don't. Go for it. There's plenty more."

She watched him strangely for a second, then shifted her gaze to her plate. Almost hesitantly, she lifted her fork to her mouth for another bite. Another few minutes and her plate was clean for the first time.

After that, she continuously ate full meals. She began to look more healthy; her ribs didn't jut out when she trained in a sports bra, her face looked softer and there was a natural glow to her cheeks, and he couldn't help noticing that her shirts fit her more snugly.

There was also a marked change in her concentration. She was more focused and relaxed, and if possible, even more alert and competent during training.

After a few years, she told him that, ever since she could remember, she had been forced to a strict diet by her superiors because of food shortages in Russia. Any of the girls in the Red Room who ate more than they were allowed were severely punished. But when she left Russia, everything changed.

She told him that she hadn't realized there was such a difference between being hungry all the time and being able to eat until she was full. Everything she'd been trained to do since she was a girl suddenly became easier. And since she could sleep more easily, she began to experience a new alertness and a sense of being refreshed that she hadn't realized she was missing out on.

And he knew exactly how she felt, in a strange way. Before her, life had been just life, and it consisted exclusively of training, eating, sleeping, and watching television, with the occasional mission every few weeks.

But then she came, and life was so much more. Because she filled an emptiness inside him that he hadn't even realized was there. All he knew was that, after getting a taste of life with her, there was no way he was ever going back.


	18. proof, n

_proof, n._

definition: to make or declare something to be valid.

rating: k+

 **A/N: thank you to everyone who has followed/PMed/reviewed in the past several months! I get excited about every follow & favorite and I read every review and message. You guys really inspire me to write and I promise that I'm gonna update Distracted in Siberia soon! I have a ton of it written out in notebooks, it's just a matter of finding time to type it up, edit and post it. I'm in my senior year of high school so my life is pretty crazy. Anyways, here's a one shot I wrote a few days ago & I have another one lined up and ready to post so be on the lookout! :) Enjoy!**

 **~Xx**

* * *

White lights flashed before his eyes, and hot pain seared his chest.

"Barton."

So much pain. He craned his neck down, and saw nothing but warm, sticky red.

"Barton!"

So much blood. Someone had to clean it up. He shifted, and pain stabbed his chest again. He heard a cry like that of a wounded animal, then realized it was himself.

"Clint!"

This time, he focused on her. Her hair was like the blood that covered his chest, but shifting and moving and alive. There was a streak of blood next to her lips. He reached up to swipe it away and she caught his hand in hers.

"Stay still," she ordered, lowering his hand. Something tickled the back of his throat, and suddenly he couldn't stop coughing. His lungs burned and pain bloomed in his chest. When the coughing finally eased, he turned weakly to the side and spit out a gob of blood. He collapsed onto his back again and caught a look on Natasha's face, one he didn't see often, but was nonetheless familiar with.

"Hey, you don't gotta worry about me, Natasha," Clint said, his voice raspy. Natasha didn't respond, but pressed her lips together and frowned a little deeper as she grabbed his wrist to check his pulse for the hundredth time.

"Hey." Clint watched Natasha, waiting until he caught her eye. "Told you so."

Natasha froze.

"Told you I would take a bullet for you."

"Clint. Don't." She wasn't checking his pulse anymore; she was squeezing his hand so tightly he could feel his fingers turning blue. "Clint, taking a bullet for someone doesn't mean you have to die. Exfil's on the way. You just have to hang on a little longer."

Clint's lips felt heavy, and it took all his effort just to get out the words. "Dying is the point of taking a bullet for someone else."

"Clint-"

"Tasha, please." It was getting harder to breathe. He forced his eyes open just to see her. Blood was still stained beneath her lower lip, and he reached forward to wipe it from her face but left more of it streaking down to her jaw. "Let me do this for you."

####

Natasha sat with her head in her hands, elbows propped up on her knees. She sat that way a lot these days. Ever since Clint had taken a bullet for her. And since that day, her mind wouldn't keep still. Not that she wasn't always thinking, analyzing things, reading people. This was different. This was just noise. _Why? Why? Why did he do it? Why would he? Why did he think she deserved it?_ It drowned out everything else, and she couldn't stop it.

"Hey."

Natasha's head snapped up, and for a moment everything stopped. Then her face contorted its features into an expression she hadn't had reason to use for a while: a smirk. "Barton, you're an idiot."

Clint, even in a hospital bed with all the wires and tubes and machines surrounding him, chuckled, and his blue eyes crinkled. Natasha's chest ached. She'd missed that sound and those eyes.

"How long has it been?" Clint asked, his voice low and scratchy with underuse.

"Six weeks plus a few days," Natasha responded simply. "Bullet wasn't the only thing that got you. You also received several HYDRA boots to the head before I got to you."

Clint grimaced. "Did you give 'em hell?"

"I did."

"Good."

There was a short pause, then Natasha couldn't hold it in any longer. All the thoughts from the past six weeks came pouring out in a flood of jumbled emotions. "Damn you Barton, why did you do it?"

Clint's smile faded, replaced by little frown lines on his forehead. "Why wouldn't I have? We work for SHIELD, and that means, plain and simple, that we are a shield. It's my job to be the last line of defense."

"So you're saying you would, what - throw your life away the first time a bad guy aims at a good guy and pulls the trigger?" Natasha felt herself growing angry. "That makes no sense, Barton. People die. That's the job. That's life."

"And I'm saying it's my job to make sure life's not always that way for everyone," Clint responded, the frown lines growing deeper. "Natasha, I won't always get the opportunity to take the bullet for someone, but if I can, then I sure as hell will."

"Why?" Natasha demanded. "That makes no sense, Barton. Why trade your life for a anyone else's?"

"Because it's my damn job, Nat," Clint responded sharply. "Doesn't mean it's easy. Doesn't mean I want to." He looked fiercely at her, almost daring her to argue with him again. It surprised her for some reason. Maybe she hadn't expected him to feel so strongly that he should die in place of someone else. Maybe she hadn't expected him to be so honest with her.

"You took one for me, though," Natasha murmured.

"So?"

"So… no one's ever done anything so stupid for me before. I want to know why."

Clint shrugged. "With you, it's not so hard. I guess you make me want to do stupid things."

And looking at him now, putting herself in his place, somehow Natasha understood. She would have done the same thing. And she wasn't sure why, because that one feeling went against everything she'd been trained for.


	19. ledger, n

_ledger, n._

 _definition: a book or collection of debts and balances_

 _rating: k+_

 **A/N: As promised, here's the second story! It's much shorter but I think about this scenario a lot. k+ rating is for mild language. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _"There's red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."_

There was a reason why he never let her talk about debts. Why he cringed whenever she mentioned ledgers or favors or even Budapest.

She, along with everyone else, assumed that it was that he felt she didn't owe him anything. But that was only half of it. And it wasn't even the main half. The truth went deeper than that.

Sometimes, Clint thought about the fact that, out of all the people he'd brushed shoulders with in his life, Natasha was the one who became his best friend. They were such an unlikely pairing. And he wondered why God or the universe or the damn stars had decided she should be in his life when he sure as hell didn't deserve it.

Because before Natasha, he had been a mess. His life was meaningless. He was a ship without a sail. He was someone completely undeserving of happiness. And when he'd found her, she was broken, too. But somehow, without knowing quite how it happened, she'd changed him. Not in a way he could put into so many words, but she'd made him better. Without her, he would have been lost.

Although she believed she was the one indebted to him, in reality, it was the other way around. Every day, it seemed he was a little more aware of just how much he needed her. And he knew that a debt as big as the one he owed her, he could never fully pay off.


End file.
